


In Every Silence

by wellthatsood



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: F/M, Introspection, Light Angst, Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 19:01:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1315777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatsood/pseuds/wellthatsood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arnold comes home to find Carolyn sleeping on the couch. He watches her and thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Every Silence

By the time Arnold returned home, the sky had that pale, tinged look about it—the last bleak shade of nighttime, struggling to keep its place in the sky. It was perhaps a little later than usual, and he felt perhaps more exhausted than usual, as he squinted through the fading darkness. He turned the key in the lock, hung his coat by the door, stifled a yawn, and sought to return to the comfort of his bed. He was taken quite aback, however, as he rounded the corner and saw golden light spilling across the floor and oozing towards the tips of his shoes. 

In the living room, on the couch beside the lamp, Carolyn sat with her head angled back against the wall. Her chin slanted to the side, hair coming undone from its restraints and flowing down her neck in loose blonde curls. He hesitated in the doorframe, regarding her as she slept and fitting together the pieces of his absence. 

The ashtray on the side table was full; either the maid was growing lazy, or Carolyn was anxious. Arnold grabbed the package of cigarettes from the table, flipped open the lid, and scowled at its almost empty contents. He glanced to her lips—half-parted with the deep breaths of sleep, lipstick worn away—and decided against removing the remainder of her cigarettes. It would lead to nothing but her frustration and cold, clipped remarks— _we both have habits the other doesn’t particularly like, don’t we, Arnold?_

Carolyn’s hands lay folded on her lap. Her slim fingers knit together, bare except for her wedding ring and a delicate gold bracelet he’d given her years ago. Arnold hadn’t worn his own ring in years; it was only because he detested its feeling of constraint. There was a novel—something or other by Edith Wharton—discarded beside her on the cushion. No doubt it had long since slipped from her hands as she fell into sleep. She was almost entirely dressed, except for her shoes, which she'd left beside the couch. Her slender, stockinged ankles crossed, toes grazing against the woodgrains. 

“Carolyn,” he whispered, standing rigid in the middle of the room. “Sweet?” He repeated her name once more, in a hush. He was afraid to wake her and afraid to let her be. By all rights, her bed—or perhaps his bed, if she felt so inclined—would be more comfortable than the couch. He wanted her head cradled against a pillow, not pressed into the wallpaper. 

He said her name a third time, and still she did not stir. Arnold lingered a moment watching her, before he removed his shoes and laid them quietly beside Carolyn’s. He took off his pocket watch, bow tie, and collar, and placed all these effects onto an armchair. He tugged the cord on the lamp and they were surrounded by darkness. 

Once accomplished, he slipped his jacket from his shoulders and draped it across his wife—knowing how easily she caught chill—and tucked the corners until she was neatly ensconced. She stirred, mumbled, and tugged his jacket tighter under her chin. As her breathing resumed its heavy, slow pace, Arnold knelt—catlike—on the couch beside her. He lowered himself, curling to fit, and placed his head on her lap. 

He would have liked to stretch out his legs, and perhaps his bed would have been more comfortable for his body. But it was so pleasant, with the pulse of life gentle against his cheek and the warmth of familiarity, that Arnold found he could not be troubled by a cramp in his calf or an ache in his back. He fell into sleep, content and safe. 

Carolyn woke not an hour later; it would have been impossible not to notice Arnold’s presence. He was—and always had been—an agitated sleeper. Most nights, he tossed, he turned, and he fidgeted the whole night through. For a man so controlled, so meticulous in his actions, he became quite different. But Carolyn understood; even Arnold could not maintain his composure forever. As he slept, everything that lurked beneath his veneer rushed to the surface and manifested in his movements. 

With the restrictions of the couch, however, Arnold could not thrash as per his custom. Thus, he struggled and he twisted and he ground his shoulder down into her leg. This was what woke Carolyn—a sharp, sudden pain as her husband struggled to make himself comfortable. 

Her eyes fluttered, struggling to adjust to the grey light creeping into the room with the sun’s slow rise. The first thing to fill her sight was Arnold’s troubled brow, drawn tight even in sleep, as he thrased. “Arnold,” she breathed, stroking his face with the tips of her fingers. “Shh, dearest, try to relax.” But he was too deep in sleep to hear her gentle plea. She sighed and relaxed back against the couch; she let her fingers dangle against his cheek, making soft circles with a slow timidity. She stopped only for a moment, to light the end of a cigarette balanced between her lips, before she returned to her languid caresses. His skin was warm and familiar, and she traced it as though trying to learn him once more. 

She lifted the collar of his jacket to her face; its coarse material filled her with the well-known scent as she leaned into the makeshift blanket. “How thoughtful of you,” she praised in a quiet voice, even though he could not hear. She pursed her lips to hold the cigarette in place, and ran the flat of her palm down his arm. “But aren’t you cold?” 

Carolyn ached to lie beside him; she wanted Arnold’s arms around her, warm beneath the blankets, enveloping her in safety and his scent and his promises and the tired look of satisfied tenderness in his dark eyes. It had been so long since she’d seen them glow with love. 

Her lids still tugged downward with fatigue; the rhythm of her caresses was lulling her back to sleep, tempting her to surrender into a peaceful nothingness. She exhaled. Smoke billowed between her lips. She stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray, one of many from the night before, and stared at the grandfather clock across the room. It was difficult to read in the dim light, but she squinted and focused on the passage of time as the hands ticked. 

“We ought to go to bed, Arnold,” she said without looking down. For a moment, she imagined the small apartment that had been their home in the first few years of their marriage. It was small. Carolyn was often kept awake long through the night, as the voices of the card players below drifted up through the floorboards. Sometimes Arnold was with them, sometimes he was with her, but he would always cup her chin in his hand, bring her lips to his, and whisper, _“We ought to go to bed, sweet.”_ And he would smile as he led the way, pleased to curl up beside her. Somehow, the noises of the city were easier to ignore when Arnold whispered lovely promises into her ear until she fell asleep. 

Her neck grew stiff and her body longed to stretch. With care not to wake him, Carolyn placed her hands beneath Arnold’s head, supporting him as she slipped out from underneath. She replaced her lap with a pillow, casting one last look upon his sleeping frame. Bending, she kissed his temple, before she turned and retreated to her bedroom. 

Midmorning, he awoke on his own, while she lay curled beneath blankets still wearing his jacket, staring at the wall and willing sleep to quiet the memories. They both bore the signs of weariness in the circles beneath their eyes.


End file.
